


Literal Liminality

by idoltina



Category: Glee
Genre: Bullying, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nudity, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-09
Updated: 2011-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A literal play on 'You move me, Kurt.' Kurt works for his father's moving company while his father recovers from a heart attack and is set with the task to move one Blaine Anderson into his first apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Literal Liminality

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings (if any):** Language, allusions/references to homophobia, bullying, violence, and physical injuries, nudity, sex

Lima → Youngstown (8:00 a.m. - 2:00 p.m.)

Blaine is alone in his bedroom, sheets stripped from the bed and packed in a box, frame taken apart and lying in pieces on the floor. He sits on the mattress cross-legged, the white, blank walls glaring at him in a way they haven't before, devoid of posters and playbills and photographs. He's spent his last night in this room, at least while he's called this place home. Now all that's left to do is leave it.

Sighing, he picks up the empty bowl and accompanying spoon from the nightstand and makes his way down to the kitchen, depositing his breakfast dishes in the sink. He lingers in here for a minute, remembers the way his mother had greeted him a few hours ago, all flutter and nerves and business, kissing his cheek before she brushed out the door. She might have cried a little. Might have. Blaine can't really be sure. He hasn't seen his father since last night.

He starts to make his way back up to the bedroom, just stepping on the upper landing when there's a loud, insistent knock on the front door. Blaine glances at his watch- 8 a.m., they're right on time. There's a clicking sound as Blaine turns on his heel to rush back down the stairs, and then a voice floating up towards him: “Hello?”

“Coming!” Blaine calls back in a rush, keeping his eyes trained on his feet as he clambers down the stairs.

“Finn!” a new voice chastises. “You can't just _walk in_ \--”

“The door was open!” the first voice shoots back, defensive.

Blaine lifts his gaze for a moment as he continues to make his way downstairs and catches sight of two men, one much taller than the other, facing each other. The shorter of the two is standing akimbo, hands on his hips, but he stops glaring at his counterpart when he hears Blaine grow closer. Their eyes meet and Blaine is transfixed by blue in a face of porcelain --

He promptly falls down the stairs with a loud clatter.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” the shorter man asks (and his _voice_ ), rushing forward and kneeling at the foot of the stairs, companion at his heels.

“Fine,” Blaine dismisses weakly, trying to wave him off and fight back an embarrassed blush. “Should've watched where I was going.” He starts to push himself up off of the floor but his body _aches_ and he's forced to sit back down. “Ow.”

“Just... stay there. Finn, go find the kitchen and see if there's an ice pack.”

“You want me to just wander around the house --”

“Yes!” the man at Blaine's side snaps. “ _Now_ would be the time to do it.” Blaine hears the clatter of feet moving away and groans, shifting his head to look up at the man again. The blue is still there, bright and concerned, but there's a tentative smile accompanying the face now and _Jesus_ , talk about _falling_. “Hi,” the man says with a slight laugh, maneuvering his hand to support the back of Blaine's head. “I'm Kurt. You're Blaine, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Blaine huffs out, struggling to sit up. “Are you the movers?”

“That would be us,” Kurt affirms, and Blaine can tell by the way Kurt's lips purse that this man (beautiful, beautiful man) is trying not to laugh at him. “You're expecting us, right?”

“Yeah, you're right on time. I just... tripped,” Blaine says lamely.

Kurt doesn't comment, though, and sighs in relief when the other man -- Finn? -- reenters the room, ice pack in hand. “Dude,” Finn says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and _wow_ , is it just Blaine being on the floor, or is Finn _really_ tall? “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Blaine assures him, groaning appreciatively as Kurt moves the ice pack to the back of Blaine's head. “I've been through worse.”

Kurt helps Blaine up, Finn hovering nearby, and deposits him on the couch in the living room. “Do you think he has a concussion?” Kurt asks Finn, biting his lip. “You're the expert here.”

“I dunno,” Finn says hesitantly. “I mean, he looks okay, but...”

“I'm right here,” Blaine complains, glaring up at them. “I'm not going to die. I can still hear you.”

“Just fine, then,” Kurt agrees, grinning down at him, and Blaine feels a little better. “Still, I'd be more comfortable if you stayed here for a little bit.”

Blaine sighs but doesn't argue, moving the ice pack from his head to his lower back, groaning appreciatively. “Hummel's Movers, right? Where's Burt?”

The smile disappears from Kurt's face almost instantly and his arms fold over his chest a little. “Mr. Hummel is currently indisposed,” he informs Blaine flatly. “Finn and I are handling the moves for the next few weeks.”

“Oh,” Blaine says amicably, shoulders falling at the change in Kurt's demeanor. “So you work for him, or...”

“I'm his son,” Kurt says in a clipped tone. “Finn is my stepbrother.” There's an awkward, tense moment between the three of them before Kurt adds, “So New York?”

Blaine smiles a little. “New York,” he affirms. “Burt said that'd be okay, that it wasn't too long of a drive. I know we had to pay extra for it --”

“It's fine,” Kurt dismisses with a wave of his hand. “It's a long drive, though.”

“Well, you'll be splitting it, won't you?” Blaine reasons, gesturing between the two of them.

“Um, no, actually,” Finn disagrees, coloring. “I'll help you load the truck but I'm out of here before noon.” He shifts from one leg to the other (and yes, he _is_ just that tall, Blaine decides) and looks up at the stairs. “So... what are we moving?”

“Just the stuff in my bedroom. Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Finn nods and bounds up the stairs, taking them three at a time as Kurt yells after him. “Be careful! Don't break anything!” He rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to Blaine. “Sorry about him. He's useful if we need to move anything heavy, though.”

“Does he have another appointment, or...?”

“Of sorts,” Kurt says with a twisted smile. “Lunch date with his girlfriend, I think. I haven't figured out exactly how he's repaying me for bailing on the drive.”

“I can help,” Blaine offers, realizing that it's going to be just the two of them in the truck for eleven hours.

“No, that's silly,” Kurt protests. “You just fell down the stairs. You hired us, we'll put your things in the truck, and then I'll drive --”

“We're going to have to make more stops if you're the only one driving,” Blaine points out. “And I'm not letting you pack up the truck, drive that long, and then unpack it all yourself. That's ridiculous.”

“But --”

“Kurt,” Blaine cuts in, reaching out for Kurt's hand. Kurt's breath hitches as he glances down at their hands, but Blaine doesn't let go until Kurt looks at him again. “I really don't mind.” He tugs at Kurt's hand a little until Kurt gets the idea, and then Kurt helps hoist Blaine to his feet. Blaine stumbles a little, still a little uneasy on his feet, and finds himself pressed flush against Kurt's chest, feeling the firm muscles even under the coveralls. Kurt _blushes_ , bright and red and still holding onto Blaine's hand.

“Maybe you should sit back down,” Kurt suggests airily.

“'m fine,” Blaine mumbles, unable to keep his eyes from flicking down to look at Kurt's lips.

Kurt's lips part for a second, inhaling sharply, before his tongue darts out to sweep over them. “We should go upstairs,” he says shakily. “I'm not really sure I trust Finn not to break anything yet.”

“Yeah,” Blaine says hoarsely, swallowing. They aren't alone, Kurt probably isn't even gay, Blaine is moving to _New York_ in a matter of hours, Kurt is the one moving him, what is Blaine even _thinking_?

Together, they make their way upstairs, Kurt's hand pressed gently against the small of Blaine's back just in case. Blaine can't fight the tingle that rushes up his spine at the touch. Blaine leads them to his bedroom, gesturing around at the assortment of boxes. “This is it.”

“You did say there wasn't much,” Kurt says approvingly, glancing around the room. “Is the bed going?”

“Yeah. Here --” Blaine starts towards the mattress but Kurt grabs his arm, holding him back.

“You are _not_ moving the bed,” Kurt says firmly. “Finn and I will take care of that.”

“I can at least spot you,” Blaine offers lamely. Kurt waves a hand dismissively but Blaine makes his way down the stairs first, guiding them down the stairs and out to the truck, first with the mattress and then with the box spring. Kurt rolls his sleeves up after the latter, sweat beginning to gather on his brow, and Blaine has to fight to remind himself that this is _not a good idea_.

“There's the dresser,” Blaine says, gesturing around the room once they're upstairs again, “the bookshelf, the desk, and the nightstand,” he finishes. “That's it in terms of furniture. The rest of it is mainly boxes, a few bags.”

“Dresser first,” Kurt decides, moving to one end of it, Finn mirroring his action on the other side. “I think we can get the rest of the furniture,” Kurt says to Blaine, knuckles whitening as he grips the dresser. “If you insist on helping, the nightstand and the boxes are all I'm letting you help with.”

“At least let me get you water or lemonade or something,” Blaine offers, moving to the side as they carry the dresser through the bedroom door.

“Ooo, lemonade,” Finn chimes in, grunting as he starts to make his way down the stairs again. “I won't say no to that.”

Kurt glares at him but sighs and nods back at Blaine before stepping down the stairs slowly. “Lemonade, then.”

“It's raspberry, is that okay?”

“My favorite,” Kurt says in a sing-song voice, smiling back at Blaine.

Once they're out the front door, Blaine softly bangs his head against the wall (which is a really bad idea with a head injury, apparently, because _ow_ ). Why couldn't he have met Kurt before now? Why couldn't he be staying in Ohio? Every sense, every fiber of him is telling him that Kurt _is_ gay, but that's more intuition than anything else, and Blaine's gaydar isn't perfect, he's made mistakes before.

No. _No._ Not a good idea.

Once the bookshelf and desk are in the moving truck, Blaine insists on having them sit in the kitchen, three glasses of lemonade waiting on the counter. “Satisfactory?” Blaine asks, glass hovering at his lips.

“Mmm,” Kurt hums pleasantly, licking his lips. “Very.” He takes another drink and glances over at Blaine over his glass, eyes curious and calculating but somehow still smiling.

Guess Blaine's not the only one with the problem, then.

Finn helps himself to another glass despite Kurt's disapproving noise and then rubs his hands together. “So that's most of the hard stuff, right? It's just boxes and stuff now?”

“Go get the nightstand,” Kurt sighs, waving him upstairs. He glances at the pitcher for a second but doesn't say anything; Blaine reaches for it and pours him another glass. “Thank you,” Kurt says quietly, leaning against the counter as he nurses the second glass. Blaine leans his elbow against the kitchen island, trying to keep his gaze trained on Kurt's face and not let it linger over Kurt's frame (Blaine absolutely will not admit to admiring it each trip Kurt took up and down the stairs). “So New York,” Kurt says brightly. “It's just you moving there, then?”

Blaine nods. “Yeah, I'm starting at NYU next month. I've got an apartment close by.”

Kurt smiles a little faintly, but then something flickers in his eyes and he breaks eye contact with Blaine, shoulders rolling back. “That's nice.”

“What about you?” Blaine prompts. “Have you graduated already?”

“Just this past June,” Kurt says, nodding.

“Are you going to college here, then? So you can help your dad with the business?”

“Um, no,” Kurt says shortly. “Finn is going to school close by, so he'll still be able to help out, but I'm going away to school -- to New York, actually.”

“Really?” Blaine asks interestedly, perking up, and seriously, he cannot believe his luck. Maybe he _could_ start something...

“Well, I was,” Kurt amends, fingers tracing the rim of the glass. “Now, I'm not so sure if I should still go...”

Blaine frowns, confused, but as Kurt continues to refuse to meet Blaine's gaze, a thought occurs to him. “Is... everything okay? You know, with your dad? Why didn't he come with you today?”

Kurt's eyes finally do flick up to meet Blaine's, but it's still a long moment before he says, very quietly, “My dad had a heart attack last week.”

Blaine's chest aches a little, his jaw falling open. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry --”

“He'll be fine,” Kurt says, swallowing thickly. “He woke up yesterday. It'll just take him time to recover. My stepmom told me not to worry too much.”

“But you do,” Blaine figures out, head tilting to the side a little.

“Of course I do,” Kurt snaps. “He's my dad.” Blaine's eyes widen and Kurt backtracks a little, apologetic. “I'm sorry, I just... For a long time, it was just the two of us. And it's not that I don't trust Carole. It's just...”

“He's your dad. Hey, I get it,” Blaine offers, moving to stand next to Kurt. “I mean, I'm not that close to my dad, but he's still your family.” Kurt smiles faintly at him before looking back down into his glass. “Does your dad not want you to go to New York?”

“The opposite, actually,” Kurt laughs. “He'd tell me I was being stupid, considering not going.”

“How long do you have before you're supposed to move?”

“Another month. School doesn't start until late September.” He looks back up at Blaine, fighting back a grin. “I'm a little surprised you're heading out so early.”

It's Blaine's turn to shift uncomfortably. “Not much to stay for, honestly,” he admits awkwardly. _Until now._

“Your parents don't want you to stay?” Kurt asks, surprised. Blaine shakes his head, glancing down at his feet. “Why not?”

Blaine swallows thickly but decides to be a little daring, killing two birds with one stone. “Easier for all of us if I head out as soon as possible,” he says carefully. “Better to avoid the whole awkward 'introducing boyfriends to your parents' thing. Hasn't really been all that successful in the last four years.”

He can feel Kurt's eyes on him but he waits, waits for Kurt to speak or make a move, something, anything. “Well,” Kurt sighs, “maybe I should go after all.” Blaine looks back up at him, arching an eyebrow. “First openly gay guy I meet moves to New York, seems like a good reason to go too. You know, solidarity and all.”

So Kurt _is_ gay. Huh. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all.

“Oh, I don't know,” Blaine says thoughtfully. “It might look kind of bad, if your dad knew you were reconsidering and then suddenly up and decided to go. He might think you were running off with the first guy you meet --”

“Are you suggesting I run away with you?” Kurt teases, and there's that smile again.

“I'm just saying that's how it'd probably look,” Blaine clarifies, laughing. He nudges Kurt's arm with his own and pushes himself away from the counter. “We should probably help your stepbrother. They _are_ my things, after all.”

“Oh yeah,” Kurt says, following Blaine. “That _is_ why I'm here, isn't it?”

“I thought you were here to run away with me,” Blaine teases, and Kurt laughs.

When they reach the bedroom again, half of the boxes are gone and Finn is bouncing anxiously on the balls of his feet. “Hey, Kurt, it's ten, do you still need --”

“Oh my god, go,” Kurt groans, pushing him towards the door.

“I'm sorry, bro, you know I am. It's just -- it's a half-hour drive home, and I still have to shower, and then get flowers, and I told Rachel I'd pick her up by noon --” Finn explains.

“I know, I know, just go,” Kurt says, waving him off. “Thank you for your help,” he adds, softening a little. Blaine sees Kurt fighting back a smile as Finn crushes him with a hug and bolts downstairs, and Blaine thinks it might be partially due to the fact that Finn leaving means that it's just the two of them now. Kurt glances around at the few boxes left and smiles over at Blaine. “He's useful for _something_. I think between us, we can actually just carry these down to the truck and head out.”

“Yeah,” Blaine breathes. He glances around the room and suddenly feels a lot smaller in the empty space.

Kurt watches him for a moment. “Lots of memories?”

Blaine shrugs. “I grew up here, so yeah.” As he looks around the room, though, most of what made it _his_ is already gone, packed up and stowed away in the truck outside. The only two things that betray his childhood are on the walls. He ventures over to a small patch on the wall where the paint is a slightly different color, obviously hastily added to cover something up. “I may have finger painted on the wall here,” he admits sheepishly, “when I was five. My parents weren't pleased.”

“You had to have a creative outlet somehow,” Kurt reasons, smiling.

Blaine grins back. “Probably why they stuck me in piano lessons.”

“You play?” Kurt asks, surprised.

Blaine nods. “Music was the better outlet. I was the lead soloist for my show choir three years running in high school.”

“Gay _and_ a singer,” Kurt muses thoughtfully. “We have more in common than I thought. What a catch. Maybe I _should_ run away with you.”

“It'll be a real-life version of _Rent_ ,” Blaine laughs. “My keyboard is in the basement. I should grab that on the way out.”

Kurt merely nods, eyes falling back to the painted spot on the wall, watching as Blaine moves towards the door frame, thumb tracing over the faint pencil marks there. Kurt joins him, his own thumb tracing the same path before smirking. “You never were all that tall, were you?” Kurt says, amused.

“Not all of us are gifted with good genes like you and your step-brother,” Blaine mumbles, “who, by the way, is seriously a giant.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Kurt considers, looking him up and down. “I'd say you won out for the most part in terms of good genes.” Blaine glances over at him, fingers itching to reach out and just _touch_ \-- Kurt seems to realize how close they are and inhales sharply, backing away and turning his attention back to the boxes. “Should we tape up the last of these?”

“Um, yeah,” Blaine coughs, clearing his throat. They kneel at the same box and reach for the tape gun at the same time, hands brushing -- “I'll, um... I'll grab this one,” Blaine offers, unable to fight the color that floods his cheeks. Kurt doesn't respond, just moves to the next box, and Blaine swears internally. There's a part of him that knows pursuing something with Kurt would actually be viable; it's the part of him that's been fighting not to touch Kurt all day, the part of him that's been flirting madly. But there's another part of him that's afraid to actually do it; it's the part of him that knows he doesn't really have any experience in this area, the part of him that knows if he just up and kisses Kurt now, things could go wrong and the next twelve or so hours could be really, really awkward.

“Does this go in a specific box?” Kurt asks after a few minutes, holding up a tattered red notebook.

“Um, no,” Blaine says, reaching for it. “That can just go in my backpack.”

Kurt tapes up the last of the boxes and pushes himself up to his knees, surveying Blaine carefully. “Do you want a minute?” Kurt asks gently, nodding around the room. “I can take the last of these down and grab the keyboard from the basement.”

“Sure,” Blaine agrees automatically before he can really think about if he needs the moment or not, if he actually even wants to stay and bask in the memories of his childhood or not. He listens to the sound of Kurt's footsteps going up and down the stairs for a few moments before his mind starts to wander, mentally replacing the empty room with the missing objects. The dresser, with a mirror attached, a place he avoided except for mornings when he got ready for school, a reflection he didn't want to see. The bed, the place he'd curled up and cried himself to sleep when he'd come home from the hospital after Sadie Hawkins. The desk, the place his laptop had sat, the world at his fingertips, leading him to people like him, answers to the questions he was too afraid to ask, guiding him to safe places to run. They were all things he was taking with him, things he couldn't run from unless he got rid of them. The room itself was never really home.

Sighing, Blaine pushes himself to his feet and hoists his backpack onto his shoulders, flicking the light switch down on his way out the door. He doesn't look back. He pauses in the kitchen to leave his copy of the house key on the kitchen island, but other than that, he's ready to make his way out the front door. He doesn't leave a note. The door clicks shut behind him; Blaine jiggles the knob to make sure it's locked, and that's it. For the next twelve hours, his home is the truck in front of him.

Kurt.

Blaine smiles a little and jogs down the driveway to join him. Kurt is leaning against the side of the truck waiting, coveralls long gone. He's wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a button-down with three-quarter length sleeves, a fitted vest buttoned neatly over it. He looks _better_ than he did earlier, infinitely better, no material left to disguise just how slim his figure is, how fit and alluring --

Kurt wiggles a small bottle at him, handing it over before he moves away from the passenger door. “Ibuprofen,” he explains. “I found some in the glove box. I figured it'd do until you could rest properly.”

“Thanks.” Blaine pops two into his mouth and climbs into the passenger side, depositing the backpack at his feet and pulling the door shut. Kurt climbs in after him a minute later, resting his phone on top of a jacket and scarf lying between them -- “Oh my god,” Blaine gushes, reaching out for the scarf. “Is this a McQueen?”

The corner of Kurt's mouth turns up a little as he nods. “You're making it really hard to resist running away with you, you know.”

Blaine grins at him. “Can I hold this? For like, the rest of the trip? I've never even been this close to one before.”

“Be my guest,” Kurt laughs, buckling his seatbelt and turning the key in the ignition. “Any harm comes to it, though, and you might end up moving the mattress yourself.”

Blaine buckles his seat belt as well, settling in as comfortably as he can (he suddenly finds himself very grateful for the ibuprofen because _ow_ , he must've fallen a little harder than he thought). “How long do you plan on driving?”

“I figured I could get through Ohio,” Kurt offers. “We can stop near Youngstown or something for a late lunch around two and then switch. The GPS is in the glove box -- can you set it up?”

“Sure,” Blaine agrees, reaching for it and punching in his new address. “Oh wow, that's... a lot of CDs,” he laughs.

“Truck's a little older,” Kurt explains. “My dad has a CD player in here but there's no hook-up for an iPod or anything. My iPhone has its own speakers, but --”

“Not really ideal for a car trip, yeah.” Blaine shuffles through the CDs, most of which are homemade, the songs listed on the covers in a green, hesitant cursive. “Did you make all of these?”

“Most of them,” Kurt admits. “If there's nothing in there you like, you can use my phone to look things up on YouTube, but --”

“No, these are fine,” Blaine says amicably. “We like a lot of the same things. Not a lot of top forty, but plenty of older stuff, lots of musicals --”

“I think the _Rent_ soundtrack is in there somewhere,” Kurt muses. “But we can save that for when we're closer to New York, if you like.”

Blaine tosses the discs back into the glove box and settles back down. “Let's worry about it later. We can just talk for a while, if you're up for it.”

Kurt raises his eyebrows, amused. “Trying to ensure you're on my good side in case you damage the scarf later?”

“No,” Blaine laughs. “Eleven hours in the car together, another couple moving stuff into my apartment, I figure we might as well get to know each other a little, make this less awkward.” A beat, and then, “And, you know, it'd be nice to get to know each other if we actually are running away together.”

Kurt snorts with laughter. “Okay, prince charming, what do you want to know?”

“Where'd you go to school?” Blaine asks interestedly. “What'd you do there? You said we had a lot in common --”

“Two things,” Kurt corrects. “I said we had two things in common.”

“So let's see if we have a few more,” Blaine prompts, grinning.

Kurt keeps his eyes on the road but grins back. “I went to McKinley. I was part of the show choir there --”

“McKinley?” Blaine echos, thinking hard. “New Directions, right?” Kurt nods. “We kept thinking we were going to have to compete against you guys but we never matched up. Either one of us would lose at Sectionals or Regionals or we weren't in the same division.”

“What school did you go to?”

“Dalton Academy. I was part of --”

“The Warblers, yeah,” Kurt says slowly. “We were supposed to compete against you in Sectionals one year, I think. I don't remember what happened...”

“Food poisoning,” Blaine says grimly. “Half of the Warblers ate bad take-out, we had to withdraw from the competition.”

“Sorry about that,” Kurt offers, and then he smiles a little. “Except, I'm not really that sorry. We might not have made it to Nationals if we'd had to compete against you.”

“I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult,” Blaine says carefully.

“A little of both,” Kurt laughs.

“So show choir, is that all?”

Kurt shakes his head. “I was on the Cheerios for a while during my sophomore year-”

“Hang on, the nationally ranked Cheerios?” Blaine asks. Kurt nods. “Okay, you win. You totally win.”

“What exactly were we competing over?”

“I don't know... I just know that you win,” Blaine sighs. “I couldn't be a cheerleader if my life depended on it. Especially not for that squad. I would've played football if I were a little bigger, I love the game --”

“Oh yeah, I did that too,” Kurt tosses in nonchalantly.

Blaine gapes at him. “You're joking.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Kicker. Granted, it was only for like, a week, but if we're getting technical...” Blaine's eyes fall over Kurt's body again, trailing from his neck down to his abdomen and his legs, bent and extended toward the gas peddle. He colors when Kurt glances over at him. “You don't believe me.”

“No, I do,” Blaine insists. “I just... You have the build for it. For a kicker.” Open mouth, insert foot.

“Compliment?” Kurt inquires.

“Definitely a compliment,” Blaine verifies, grinning. A satisfied smile spreads across Kurt's face.

“Okay, enough about me,” Kurt dismisses. “Your turn.”

“I spent the last three years at Dalton, like I mentioned. I was lead soloist for the Warblers, did debate and student council. Far less interesting than what you did.”

“Not necessarily less interesting,” Kurt argues. “Just different. Sounds like a prep school boy's high school experience, though,” he teases.

“Oh, I see,” Blaine teases back, “you just like me for the blazer.”

“I don't even know what you _look like_ in a blazer,” Kurt counters quickly. “I can't believe you'd insinuate I'm running away with you because of your looks.”

“You own McQueen,” Blaine deadpans. “I think this is an argument in my favor.”

Kurt purses his lips for a minute, quiet, before responding with, “Like I said earlier, you've got good genes, I'll give you that. But it's going to take a lot more than that to convince me to run away with you.”

Blaine glances at the clock on the dashboard and grins. “More than eleven hours until we get to New York,” he reminds Kurt. “And then you still have to help me unpack. Plenty of time.”

*****

Lunch (2:00 p.m. - 2:30 p.m.)

“Can I get you boys something to drink?”

Blaine glances over at Kurt, eyes glittering. “Raspberry lemonade?”

Kurt rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “Two, please, thank you,” he agrees, addressing their waitress. “Okay, Anderson,” he quips, turning his attention back to Blaine as their waitress walks away. “I've yet to hear a successful argument outside of your good looks and a few shared interests in favor of getting me to run away with you. Keep talking.”

“Nope, lunch break,” Blaine quips back, leaning back into the booth. “I think you should spend some time convincing me that I actually want to kidnap you.”

“Whoa, when did this go from running away together to kidnapping?”

“Semantics,” Blaine dismisses, waving his hand. “It's your turn.”

Kurt rests his chin in his hand, pondering Blaine thoughtfully, before grinning mischievously. “You can't be trusted on your own.”

“How do you figure that?” Blaine laughs.

There's a pause in the conversation as the waitress returns with their drinks and takes their orders (a chicken salad for Kurt, a BLT for Blaine), but eventually Kurt answers, “If I don't go with you, who's going to be around to help you up off of the floor?”

Blaine narrows his eyes a little but can't stop smiling, can't actually be mad at Kurt. It's impossible, with Kurt grinning at him like that, all playful and not malicious at all. “You know, I don't actually make a habit of falling. I was just distracted.”

“Oh, yes,” Kurt says, amused, “by my giant of a brother.”

Blaine bites his lip, debating, before taking the plunge and countering, “Not by your brother.”

Kurt arches his eyebrows. “Are you _flirting_ with me?” Blaine smirks a little but still blushes, distracting himself by reaching out for his glass. “Huh, new tactics. I can't say I exactly disapprove.” Blaine glances back up at him, and now it's Kurt's turn to blush. “So let's see, if I come with you, I prevent you from bodily harm _and_ you get new eye candy. Sounds like a win-win for you.”

“Those are the most pathetic reasons I've ever heard,” Blaine laughs.

“Well now you know what I've been dealing with all morning,” Kurt snaps back, but he's not really all that annoyed.

Their orders arrive and they eat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, both of them starved from hours without food and a drive already too long. It's not until Blaine is halfway through his BLT that he glances up from his plate to find Kurt smiling bemusedly at him. “What?”

Kurt just chuckles, low and warm, shaking his head before grabbing a spare napkin from the table, reaching across the table. Blaine's heart can't decide if it wants to stop or speed up, so it settles for fluttering somewhere in between as Kurt reaches over, napkin molded around his index finger. Blaine's eyes follow as the napkin (and Kurt's finger) make contact at the corner of his mouth, wiping down gently. “Mayonnaise,” Kurt laughs quietly. “I guess you also need someone to clean up after you.”

“Now look who's flirting,” Blaine teases, and seriously, he doesn't even know where he gets the _nerve_ , but they're finally crossing that thin line from being overly friendly for travel companions to actually flirting with each other, and if they don't turn back now, they're in dangerous territory.

The rest of lunch is spent in silence, both of them too flustered to say much of anything else, and once they've paid their bill and made one last pit stop, Kurt tosses Blaine the keys and climbs into the passenger seat.

*****

Youngstown → Lockhaven (2:30 p.m. - 6:00 p.m.)

“On the count of three, name your favorite 2010 Vogue cover. One, two, three --”

“Marion --”

“Marion Cotillard!”

“-- Cotillard! Oh my god, stop it!” Blaine laughs, and Kurt is laughing _with_ him, and it's the easiest things have been the entire trip, most of their initial hesitancy and awkwardness long gone, left behind in the miles and hours it'd taken to drive across Ohio. Pennsylvania lies ahead of them, green and fertile and old, laden with hints of a colonial east coast. “Okay, we've gone from having -- what, two things in common, I think you said? -- to basically being the same person. This is kind of scary.”

“Okay, we're not _that_ similar,” Kurt disagrees with a roll of his eyes, leaning back against the passenger seat and enjoying the breeze on his face. “Case in point, I thought we established that I won, earlier.”

“Apparently I have to watch what I say around you,” Blaine teases. “Words are like weapons with you.”

There's something... off about the silence Kurt lets linger, but before Blaine can even glance over at him as they start to slow down, hitting traffic, Kurt has moved past it, humming pleasantly. “You never did say what my prize was.”

Blaine groans. “Oh god, do I dare -- okay, fine, you pick.”

Kurt considers the offer for a moment before digging around in the glove box, finally deciding on a CD and popping it into the player. “I request a serenade.”

“You _request_ a serenade?” Blaine echos, laughing. “That's totally unromantic.”

“You didn't specify that my prize had to be romantic,” Kurt throws back. “Although I do disagree.”

Blaine tries -– and fails –- to bite back a smile. “Will I know it? God, this isn't even fair.”

“Oh hush, Mr. 'I was the Warblers' lead soloist three years running',” Kurt dismisses, skipping to the song he's selected. “I think you'll know it.”

[The song starts to play](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLNTJd-gziQ) and yeah, Blaine _does_ know it, but that doesn't make him any less nervous. Kurt is _impressive_ , confident and self-assured and all ease. Blaine's not cocky enough to think that Kurt isn't talented; he _must_ be, if he was part of a group that made it to Nationals.

But Kurt shoots him an encouraging smile, a _wanting_ smile, and Blaine finds himself singing before he can talk himself out of it. “ _Tell me when will you be mine? Tell me quando, quando, quando?_ ” He glances over at Kurt nervously but breathes a little easier once he's gauged Kurt's reaction. Kurt's elbow is propped at the bottom of the window, hand holding up his head as the wind blows his hair askew, hairspray finally starting to lose its hold; and Kurt is _smiling_ at him, warm and easy and clearly pleased with what he hears. Blaine's voice gains a little confidence around _when will you say yes to me?_ , and then --

Kurt's singing _with_ him, echoing the lines in true duet fashion, and Blaine's voice gets caught in his throat. Kurt's voice is _remarkable_. But Kurt just keeps smiling, waiting for Blaine to pick up even though he's missed a line or two. Blaine finally gets his act together, shifting his grip on the steering wheel as he refocuses on the road -- _every moment's a day_ \--, and then their voices finally join in a smooth, honeying harmony -- _every day seems a lifetime; let me show you the way to a joy beyond compare_.

By the time the song comes to a close and the disc moves to the next track (Blaine doesn't even really care what it is), Kurt's moved back into a sitting position, the shift in proximity noticed by Blaine. “Please tell me,” Kurt says dreamily, “that you are going to use that gift. Because _seriously_.”

Blaine laughs, just a little, but nods. “Music major. Well, that and education.”

“Teaching?” Kurt guesses. Blaine nods, and Kurt's gaze falls down to Blaine's backpack on the floor, red notebook sticking out of the corner. “You write, don't you? Music, you write music, songs.”

Blaine hesitates, eyeing the backpack warily. “A bit,” he admits. “Nothing good enough yet.” Kurt flexes his fingers, and Blaine can tell he's itching to reach out and grab the notebook and start reading. “What about you?” he prompts, trying desperately to change the subject. “You said you were going to school in New York. Where are you going?”

Kurt snatches his hand back immediately, eyes falling to the scarf and coat between them nervously. “FIT,” he says finally.

“Should've known,” Blaine says cheekily. “McQueen. Designer. Makes sense.” Kurt hmms, keeping his gaze trained outside. “Do you have sketches?”

Kurt glares at him. “No. We are not turning this into a game of 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours.' Not happening, Blaine.”

“Okay, I have another request then,” Blaine tries.

“Who said you're allowed to make requests? I thought I was the one who won, here.”

“Indulge me.” Kurt just gives him a _look_ , but Blaine tilts his head to the side, smiling a little in Kurt's direction, and Kurt rolls his eyes, waving him on. Blaine reaches out and skips the next few songs, [the soft, tinkling echos of piano chords](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMba8vsep9I) filling the front of the truck. “Sing this for me?” Blaine pleads, pulling off of the highway towards a diner.

Kurt sighs a little, for show, but the inhale of breath he takes is full and round and beautiful, diaphragm lifting his voice in a way that looks and sounds _effortless_. “ _I told him I saw this coming, that I'd practically packed up my things._ ” Blaine pulls into a parking spot, turning the engine off but leaving the song playing just as the chorus comes around, and this time it isn't even Kurt's eyes that have him transfixed. “ _So here we go bluebird, back to the sky on your own._ ”

Kurt's eyes flutter shut as the next verse comes around -- _this pair of wings worn and rusted_ \-- and Blaine suddenly feels invisible because Kurt's voice has just become _haunting_ , sad and lonely and aching. Blaine almost feels like he should turn the key towards him one more time, silencing the music, silencing Kurt's voice, giving Kurt the chance to get out, to prevent Blaine from intruding on what is clearly a moment of reflection. But even as Blaine's hand reaches out for the keys again, Kurt's follows, resting easily on top of Blaine's, preventing him from stopping the music. He turns to meet Blaine's eyes -- _but see, turning them on still means goodbye_ \-- and then Blaine doesn't _want_ Kurt to stop singing. Kurt brings the chorus around once more, voice ringing clearly, rivaling the singer's but still harmonious all at once, and Blaine feels like he's finally seeing _Kurt_ for the first time all day. Something flickers in him, shifting and moving to a realm beyond the physical and joyous.

As Kurt's voice fades on the last line -- _here we go_ \-- Blaine offers a shaky smile and a steady hand, nodding feebly towards the diner in front of them.

Kurt takes it.

*****

Dinner(6:00 p.m. - 6:30 p.m.)

“Will you please have something _real_ for dinner?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Kurt sniffs pointedly, staring down at the menu.

“A chicken salad is a fine lunch. Small, adequate for the middle of the day. If you have another one for dinner, I might have to hand-feed you an apple pie for dessert. _With_ ice cream,” Blaine deadpans.

Kurt arches an eyebrow, looking up at Blaine over his menu. “I might hold you to that,” he says seriously. They're back to that same, slightly uneasy and daring flirting from before, the emotions from the songs in the car bubbling just beneath the surface of the skin, threatening to burst and spill over and overtake them. Blaine's mouth twists into a smile, and Kurt huffs out in false annoyance. “Fine, I'll eat something more... substantial. God knows what's even considered remotely healthy on this menu, though --”

“Live a little,” Blaine laughs. They banter back and forth all through ordering, Blaine threatening to order the bacon cheeseburger and force Kurt to split it with him, Kurt side-eying even the 'healthy' options. In the end, they both spy a pasta dinner on the specials menu and decide to split it, Kurt lighting up at the option to add a side of vegetables to the dish. “Trees,” Blaine says flatly when the pasta shows up with broccoli. “You're making me eat trees.”

“You're making me eat ice cream,” Kurt counters back, helping himself to an extra couple of pieces. “I'd call it a fair trade.” He twirls some pasta between a fork and spoon, taking a bite and chewing slowly before swallowing, quiet and contemplative. “Thank you.”

“For what, letting you get broccoli?” Blaine laughs, setting down his fork and taking a sip of raspberry lemonade.

Kurt shakes his head, setting down his own fork and settling back into the booth. “For making the trip bearable. I wasn't really looking forward to it when Finn told me he wasn't coming.”

Blaine smiles warmly. “Argument in my favor?” he asks hopefully. “Getting to know me not quite as bad as you thought it was going to be?”

“The opposite, actually,” Kurt admits as their waitress takes their plates away. “You're very... interesting.”

“Interesting,” Blaine repeats.

“Shut up,” Kurt laughs. “Pleasant. Easy to get along with.” He hesitates and glances down at his coat on the rest of his seat before reaching underneath it and placing a small sketchbook on the table. “Okay, this is so first grade, but --”

“'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'?” Blaine guesses, grinning. Kurt nods, and it only takes Blaine a second before he's digging the red notebook out of his backpack, sliding it across the table at Kurt. Slowly, they switch creations, tugging each other's best kept secrets past mostly empty glasses of raspberry lemonade. Blaine absorbs everything much more quickly, lines and curves and colors dizzying his retinas. “Wow,” Blaine breathes, turning through the pages carefully. “Kurt, these are _amazing._ ”

“Thanks,” Kurt mumbles. “You're one of very few people to appreciate my eye for design.”

“You're not serious,” Blaine says, gaping at him. Kurt's eyes narrow, his face twisting unpleasantly, and Blaine slams the sketchbook shut, reaching across the table for Kurt's hand. Kurt's breath hitches a little but he doesn't pull away, meeting Blaine's gaze steadily. “Kurt, _please_ promise me you're still going to New York, that you're still going to FIT. I know you're worried about your dad, but you _need_ this. You need to be somewhere you're appreciated.”

Kurt arches an eyebrow. “Somewhere, or with some _one_?” he prompts. Blaine blanches, caught, but he doesn't pull his hand away. “You're good, very good. You make a very convincing argument.”

“I -- what?” Blaine asks blankly.

“For running away with you,” Kurt says simply, and then his fingers are drumming underneath Blaine's, initiating more contact for the briefest of seconds before withdrawing his hand, smirking at Blaine. Kurt closes Blaine's notebook, unread, and hands it back to him. “I think I need to earn that,” he decides, nodding towards the notebook.

A small plate with a slice of apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream gets set between them; together, they look from the plate to each other, eyes locking. Blaine smiles uneasily, reaching for a spoon and carving out a small bite of the two combined, holding the spoon out across the table, eyebrows raised, hesitant, hopeful. Kurt smiles, unable to fight back a blush, and leans forward to take the bite.

They brush elbows on the way to the car, hands stuffed deeply in their pockets, too timid to reach out again just yet. Blaine makes his way to the driver's side without really thinking about it and is startled when Kurt turns around in front of him, holding out his hand expectantly. Blaine blinks, shaking his head, and digs in his pocket for the keys, dropping them in Kurt's hand with a too loud _clink_. Kurt smiles a little at him, soft and warm, before moving to turn to unlock the door and Blaine doesn't even know _what_ comes over him --

He reaches out for Kurt's elbow, making to turn him back around, but Kurt meets him halfway, surprised, curious, questioning. It takes Blaine half a second to close the space between them, using his body to back Kurt against the door of the truck, hand wrapping around to hold the back of Kurt's neck. His lips smash into Kurt's, fuse and burn and crackle and electrify against Kurt's. There's a soft whine of surprise from Kurt's mouth before he's pushing Blaine away, hand firm against the center of Blaine's chest. All of the air leaves Blaine's body at once as his jaw drops open. What did he just _do_?

Kurt's eyes meet his, wide and confused and a little panicked, but the second Blaine starts to back away, Kurt is reaching out, hands grabbing at Blaine's face and tugging him forward with force. The connection of their lips is more of the same, more life and air and fusion and lightning. And holy _fuck_ , why didn't Blaine do this earlier, when Kurt had first helped him up off of the couch? The moment was there, his for the taking, why didn't he just _take it_?

As Kurt breaks the kiss, exhaling shakily on Blaine's face, Blaine's glad he didn't. Somehow, it means more now. And even though they've stopped kissing, Blaine can't seem to stop touching, now that he's been given much more explicit permission to. His eyes are only half open as he uses his nose to map out the contours of Kurt's face, nuzzling gently, lips ghosting over Kurt's cheeks, his nose, his forehead (not an easy place to reach, with Kurt being taller than him, but as Kurt's almost sliding down the side of the truck at this point...).

“We should go,” Kurt breathes quietly. Blaine pulls back a little to look at him properly; Kurt's eyes are _shining_ , piercing and blue and happy. “We still have another four hours before we get to your apartment.” Blaine grimaces a little but nods, leaning in to press one last kiss to the corner of Kurt's eye. Kurt shivers under the touch.

When they climb into the car, Blaine reaches for Kurt's hand, and Kurt doesn't pull away.

*****

Lockhaven → New York (6:30 p.m. - 10:30 p.m.)

“When I was sixteen,” Kurt says after an hour, “I'd never had a boyfriend. I'd never been on a date. I'd never been _kissed_.” Blaine lolls his head to the side comfortably, slightly sleepy. Something inside of him aches, aches for Kurt but also just aches because Blaine knows what that's like. His dating experience -- hell, his experience with guys period is pretty much non-existent. It takes Blaine a second to realize that Kurt's confession might still hold true to _now_ , and if it does, that means _he's_ Kurt's first kiss...

“I was the only kid out of the closet at my school. I got picked on a lot.” And again, Blaine can relate, he's been there, but he doesn't want to say he knows how Kurt feels even though it's true, so he just stays quiet, listening. Kurt isn't just playing games any more, isn't trying to earn the right to read Blaine's notebook. This, this is real, whatever it is between them, the initial attraction and flirtation morphing into something more once he'd taken Kurt's hand in the diner. And suddenly, a lot more is starting to make sense, all of Kurt's vague, unexplained reactions all day: the haunting ache behind the melody, Kurt bristling at the fact that he uses words as weapons. Kurt's had walls up a long time. “But there was this one... _neanderthal_...”

Blaine refocuses his attention on Kurt, thumb rubbing encouragingly over Kurt's knuckles. Kurt breathes in deeply, whether from what he's about to say or Blaine's skin against his, Blaine's not sure. “He made my life a living hell, terrified me. And one day, I just kind of... snapped. I confronted him, and I figured... if I could just understand _why_...” Kurt tapers off, and then adds bitterly, “I got in his face, so he got in mine.”

“What --?” Blaine starts to ask, brow wrinkled in confusion.

“He kissed me,” Kurt says flatly.

And just like that, it's all gone, the magic and the desire and the playful energy from the day, because Blaine _finally_ understands. Kurt hasn't ever been with anyone, and now this... This explains why Kurt pushed him away so forcefully when Blaine had first kissed him. Blaine pulls his hand away. “Kurt, I am _so_ sorry.”

Kurt half-glances at him, confused. “Why are you sorry? I just... needed you to understand why I reacted the way I did. It wasn't you.” He snorts, and then starts babbling, “God, that's pathetic. 'It's not you, it's me.' Oldest line in the book, I swear --”

“If I had known --” Blaine starts.

“You wouldn't have done it, yeah, I know,” Kurt finishes, fingers flexing against the steering wheel. He pauses for a moment and then very quietly adds, “I'm not sorry you did, though.”

Blaine smiles a little faintly. “Me either,” he confesses. “I've kind of wanted to do it all day, since you helped me off of the couch.”

Blaine can see Kurt flush, even in the dark, but the smile on his face is clearly pleased. “I'm not used to someone... wanting me like this.”

“Who wouldn't want _you_?” Blaine asks softly.

The truck slows a little as Kurt falters, eyes locking on Blaine maybe a few seconds longer than they should. Kurt just _stares_ at him, eyes wide and jaw slightly agape, and it's with an obvious effort that he shifts his gaze back to the road. “Give me a reason,” he chokes out. “Convince me _not_ to run away with you.” It takes Blaine a second to register Kurt's tone, his implication, but --

Kurt is being entirely serious.

What are they _doing_? They've known each other less than twelve hours, Kurt is helping Blaine move six hundred miles away and then Kurt is leaving. He _might_ come back. He _might._ It's too much, too soon, all too fast, and as much as Blaine _wants_ this, wants _Kurt_ , Kurt has suffered enough. He doesn't need the mess that Blaine is.

Blaine stares resolutely at the road in front of them. “When I was fourteen,” he confesses, “I came out. Kids weren't all that great to me either. And then there was this dance and I took a friend of mine, the only other kid out at that school.” He swallows, suddenly uncomfortable telling this story not because of content, this time, but because of the hour. It's dark outside, dark and shadowed and encompassing, a catalyst and a fresh reminder of what it was like that night. “After, we were waiting for a ride home and these three guys just... beat the crap out of us.” He hears Kurt breathe out, clearly shaken, but Blaine doesn't look over, doesn't try to connect any more. Blaine shuts his emotions down. “I transferred after that. I was only at Dalton for --”

“-- three years, not four. You said, earlier,” Kurt finishes for him.

There's an awkward, uncomfortable silence between them for the first time all day, but it's broken by a steady _click, click click_ , the green light blinking on the dashboard. “What are you doing?” Blaine asks. “Why are we pulling over?”

Kurt doesn't answer, just pulls off road and shuts the ignition off, unbuckling his seat belt quickly, undoing Blaine's as he crosses the long seat of the truck. Kurt reaches out, arms wrapping around Blaine's back and neck, and buries his face into Blaine's shoulder. Blaine hesitates, but when it's apparent that Kurt isn't moving away, Blaine slowly brings his arms up to encircle Kurt's waist to the small of his back. “You're terrible at this,” Kurt laughs airily into his coat.

“Terrible at what, hugging?” Blaine asks, still confused but trying to lighten the mood. Kurt makes him feel too much.

“At convincing me not to run away with you,” Kurt clarifies, moving his head a little so his chin hooks over Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine laughs against him, a little hollowly. “My being damaged goods isn't enough to convince you to run in the opposite direction?”

Kurt pulls away sharply, meeting Blaine's eyes steadily. He looks _hurt_. “If you're damaged goods, so am I,” Kurt says resolutely. “Still think that?”

Blaine's jaw drops open a little, too many emotions flooding his system for him to even consciously identify right now, and when he doesn't answer immediately, Kurt pulls away some more, starting to climb back into the driver's seat. “Kurt, wait --” Kurt hesitates, perched at the edge of the seat between them, half of his body turned away from Blaine. He glances over his shoulder a little though, obeying the request. “I -- you're not -- _fuck_ , maybe we are,” he finally decides. Kurt turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. “But that doesn't mean there's anything _wrong_ with you. It doesn't mean someone shouldn't want you.”

“Someone, or you?” Kurt asks bluntly.

Blaine swallows thickly. “Someone,” he answers. “Me. It's -- me.”

“We've been doing this dance all day, Blaine,” Kurt says tiredly. “And the one time I decide to take it further, you back out. What are we doing?”

Blaine's lost count of how many times he's asked himself that question today. “I don't know,” he admits. Kurt sighs, rubbing his eyes in frustration, and this is exactly what Blaine didn't want. He didn't want to swamp Kurt with the hurricane, the mess that Blaine carries around, that Blaine _is_. But something in him -- a little hope, optimism, light, want, _something_ \-- tells him it's probably too late to go back now. “We're -- I _like_ you, Kurt.”

Kurt looks up at him for the space of a second before moving back towards him, long legs shifting awkwardly in the small space to get closer, settling on either side of Blaine, straddling him. Kurt leans down and presses a fervent kiss to Blaine's lips, hands cupping Blaine's jaw in a desperate attempt to recreate the fuse, the electricity, the spark from earlier. There's something honest, fluid, _wanting_ in Kurt's kiss, Kurt is making a _move_ \--

“Wow,” Blaine breathes lamely when Kurt pulls away.

“Can I ask a favor of you?” Kurt's voice is quiet, tentative, controlled but just barely. The kiss is still obviously on his mind. Blaine can't find it in him to do more than nod. Kurt reaches back and down, tugging the red notebook from Blaine's backpack. “Will you write something new?”

“Why?”

“Blank page,” Kurt explains, turning the notebook open to the first sign of white unstained by ink. “Fresh start. That's what this is for you, isn't it? New York? You're more than these pages,” Kurt insists, running a thumb through them, the pages fanning out. “You have the pen, the pages, the instruments, the voice. Use them.”

Blaine melts into the seat a little more. “What are you trying to do?”

Kurt colors, a little, before explaining. “You like me,” he says shyly. “And right now, you need to see yourself as something other than damaged goods. You need to see what I see. You need to understand why _I_ like _you_.”

Blaine reaches out and bats the notebook out of Kurt's hand, letting it fall to the floor of the truck. He tugs Kurt back in for another kiss and _seriously_. Why haven't they been doing this all day? Why _isn't_ Kurt running away with him? What does he have to do to get Kurt to _stay_ , or at the very least, come back?

Blaine reaches underneath Kurt's coat, hands sliding across the smooth material of his button-down and settling at the small of Kurt's back, cursing the layers between them. Kurt isn't close enough, Kurt isn't raw enough, Kurt isn't real enough, Blaine _needs_ him to be real. He doesn't care that they're pulled off on the side of the interstate as dark takes over the day, he doesn't care that they're stuck somewhere in Pennsylvania, or New Jersey, or wherever the fuck they are (Blaine stopped paying attention a while ago). They're not in Ohio and they're not in New York; they're in the in between, still toeing the line between just friends and something more, dancing the same dance. They need to _move_ , they need to go forward, to New York, to possibilities, but Blaine can't bring himself to move, is anchored to the seat by Kurt.

Kurt seems to have the same ideas, the same internal conflicts as Blaine, because he starts to shift a little when Blaine's arms start to wrap around him a little tighter, and then he falls forwards again, body pressed flush against Blaine's. Kurt whines a little between kisses, his tongue slipping into Blaine's mouth without much conscious thought, and Blaine matches him, moaning a little and tugging Kurt _closer_ \--

Blaine's hands fall to the loops of Kurt's jeans when he feels Kurt's cock pressed against his own, hardness obvious even through layers of fabric. His hips rock upward of their own accord and then Kurt is _gasping_ against him, rocking down, hands clutching at Blaine's shoulders as Blaine's lips fall down Kurt's jaw to his neck.

It's too much too soon -- too fast -- raw -- real -- touch -- closer -- connect -- _move_ \--

“No, no, wait, wait, wait,” Kurt babbles breathlessly, pulling away a little. “What are we doing? I can't do this, I can't just up and dry hump some stranger I met twelve hours ago in my dad's work truck --”

All of the air leaves Blaine at once. “Is that all I am to you?” he asks, his voice dangerously low. “Some _stranger_?”

Kurt's eyes widen, recognizing the implication, but something in him shifts (move _away, move away, move away, move away_ ) and he pulls back a little more, defensive. “Well that's what we _are_ , Blaine.”

“So all this 'getting to know each other' stuff, that's been what? Bullshit?” Blaine snaps.

“No,” Kurt huffs out indignantly, hoisting a leg back over Blaine and settling awkwardly somewhere between the middle of the seat and the driver's seat, distancing himself from Blaine enough to fit the mood but not enough to completely shut him out. “I'm just saying that maybe we should slow down.”

“I don't _want_ to slow down,” Blaine says fiercely. “You just gave me shit for holding back, for backtracking, when all I've wanted to do all day is _this_. You're such a hypocrite.”

“I'm sorry if I have _standards_ ,” Kurt says icily.

“God, this isn't even about that,” Blaine groans. “We were kissing, it got a little heated. There was no reason it had to go any further. It's --” He stops, huffing in frustration. “Do you even realize what you're doing right now? How far away you are? What that means? What it _really_ means?”

“I'm putting some _distance_ between us, Blaine,” Kurt says thinly.

“Yeah, well, put some more,” Blaine says coldly. “Why don't you keep driving?”

Kurt gapes at him for a moment but Blaine refuses to look at him any more, instead snatching his notebook up off of the floor and curling up with it, buckling his seatbelt and using the light of his phone to illuminate the page, blank and white underneath his stare.

After a moment, Kurt clears his throat and turns the key in the ignition.

They don't speak the rest of the drive.

*****

New York (10:30 p.m. - 2:30 a.m.)

Blaine apologizes profusely, again, to his landlord as the latter deposits the keys into Blaine's hand. It's late, much too late to be doing this, but it turns out his landlord -- a Mr. McGarraugh -- has a kid Blaine's age, packing boxes and preparing to move out. Mr. McGarraugh promises to come back tomorrow, in the afternoon -- to see how Blaine's settling in -- and wishes him luck on his first night. He leaves Blaine feeling properly fussed over and worried after, a sentiment he hadn't felt when he left Ohio this morning. Well, except for the whole falling down the stairs bit.

Blaine sighs and makes his way back to the truck, turning the keys over in his hand. His. These keys are his. This apartment is his. He's home.

Kurt's leaning against the side of the truck, arms folded over his chest, waiting. Blaine dangles the keys in front of him and nods towards the building. “I'm just gonna run inside and open the door -- it's on the first floor so no stairs to work with, luckily.” Kurt merely nods at him, just barely, and makes his way around to the back of the truck to start unloading.

Blaine's first impression of the apartment is that it's warm, small and warm and the air is a little stale but it's entirely _his_. He can put the furniture where he pleases, plaster posters and playbills and photographs on the walls, make holes and finger paint. He can eat Chinese take-out every night if he wants, or he can not eat at all; he can fall asleep at eight or stay up until two. There's no one here to tell him what to do, to dictate his schedule, to give him rules to live by, to tell him _no_.

Well, except Kurt. Kurt's going to say no.

Tired, aching, lonely and wanting, Blaine makes his way back to the truck to help Kurt move the furniture into the apartment. They work in relative silence for a while, maneuvering around tight corners but thankfully avoiding stairs. When Blaine returns with the nightstand after a while, Kurt's almost finished setting up the bed frame for him, a gesture Blaine wasn't expecting. By the time Blaine brings the last box in from the truck, Kurt's actually _unpacking_ , unearthing a few trace objects from boxes. There's his DVD copy of _The Sound of Music_ resting on top of one box, a playbill from a production of _Rent_ he'd gone to his junior year on top of another. Kurt's holding a picture frame in his hand, a sad smile on his face. Blaine knows which picture it is, one of him with the Warblers in his last year, blazer and all (Kurt knows what he looks like in a blazer, now). “You don't have to help unpack.”

Kurt looks up, startled, shoulders falling a little before setting the frame back in the box. He seems to recognize the dismissal but doesn't look all that eager to leave just yet. “Are you -- are you going to sleep at all before you make the drive back?” Blaine asks hesitantly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Kurt nods, biting his lip and clutching at one of his arms; the gesture, the position, is an obvious sign of Kurt's discomfort, of Kurt closing in and cutting off, despite how much he clearly _wants_ to talk right now. “I have money for a room.”

They stand in an awful, awkward silence for a few moments before Blaine digs around in his pocket, unearthing his wallet and pulling out a few bills for Kurt. “For a tip,” Blaine explains, extending his arm to hand them over.

Kurt shakes his head, pushing the money back towards Blaine. “If my dad knew you helped with the drive, he'd insist on reimbursing you a little. Consider us even.”

But they're not, they're not even because they've left things unresolved, and hours of silence, of contemplation and reflection and writing and _feeling_ has left Blaine wanting again, wanting to fix, to move, to be moved. He's not sure whose problem it is to fix though, or how to fix it, and he's resigned himself at this point to the fate that he's going to live -- without Kurt.

“I hope you like it here,” Kurt offers, glancing around the apartment. “I -- maybe I'll see you around, next month?”

Blaine doesn't even know how to _process_ that piece of information, that Kurt is going to come back to the city, that they might cross paths again, much less know how to _react_ to it. He squeezes his eyes shut, hard, and looks away. There's a shaky, muffled sound from Kurt, and then a steady footfall as Kurt crosses the apartment, passes Blaine, and walks out the door.

Blaine can't shut it fast enough, back resting against the door, eyes still shut against the world. It all just hurts too much.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, the wood against his back supporting him, but slowly he sinks to the floor, knees drawn up against his chest, head buried against them. He's tired, he's so tired, so sore, so alone. There's no one to tuck him in, no one to tell him if he should sleep or shower or eat or call his mother. Blaine's not quite sure what to do with himself, and as the minutes tick by, he starts to laugh bitterly at just how true that is, always.

He's not sure where he fucked things up, if he fucked things up at all. Maybe he clung a little too tightly to Kurt because he knew he was going to be alone. Maybe Blaine really _did_ just like Kurt that much. Maybe they would've been good together. Maybe Kurt made him feel that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't alone. Maybe he made Kurt feel that way too. Blaine doesn't know and it doesn't matter any more. He'll never know. He has Kurt's name, and the only phone number he has is for Kurt's father. Blaine doesn't have Kurt's number, doesn't have Kurt's address, doesn't -- _fuck_ , Blaine doesn't even have a _picture_ of him. In almost every way, Kurt is only going to exist in his memory, and -- for the rest of the night, maybe -- in the faint tingling pores of his skin. He'll smell a little like Kurt until he showers, and come morning, it'll all be gone. It'll all be over.

Blaine thinks he imagines it, at first. It's wishful thinking, there's no one knocking at his door, no one knows him here, there's no one who wants to see him --

But as Blaine lifts his head and focuses, he realizes that yes, someone is knocking on his door. He thinks of Mr. McGarraugh, of the concern he'd expressed over a kid Blaine's age staying in the city alone for the first time, and it thaws him a little. Sighing, he pushes himself to his feet and twists the knob tiredly, eyes heavy and lidded as he pulls the door open --

Blaine's heart _stops_.

“You left this in the truck,” Kurt offers half-heartedly, holding up Blaine's red notebook. Blaine reaches out slowly to take it, tossing it gently on one of the boxes, eyes never leaving Kurt's frame. “I read what you wrote tonight,” Kurt adds. “You're good, Blaine, really good. And...” Kurt's shoulders shift a little, betraying exhaustion and discomfort, but he keeps talking, and Blaine is _transfixed_ again -- “It was nice,” Kurt admits quietly, “to finally get to know you a little.”

Blaine takes one long stride forwards, reaches out a hand, and tugs Kurt into a heated kiss.

Kurt's arms are around his neck almost instantly, meeting him in equal fervor, body rolling up and into Blaine's. Blaine barely has time to wrap his arms around Kurt's back before Kurt is hoisting himself up, using the muscles in his legs to wrap them around Blaine's waist. Kurt leans forward, forcing Blaine to carry a little more of his weight; Blaine stumbles backwards, lips glued together, and as the door slams shut (probably by the force of Kurt's hand, Blaine really has no idea), Kurt pulls back, tugging Blaine forward, redistributing his weight a little more evenly. Blaine's hands move from Kurt's back to his waist as he continues to move forward, pinning Kurt up against the door, lock clicking into place. Kurt's head hits the back of the door with a loud _thwack_ and their lips fall apart, eyes opening in surprise, both of them breathless.

Blaine's heart is _pounding_. “You came back,” Blaine breathes stupidly, and he knows that holds true now, but also in a month. Kurt will go back to Ohio in the morning, will spend the days with his father, will pack up boxes and another truck or maybe a car, and then, in a month, Kurt will be back.

Tonight, he's here. Tonight, he's Blaine's. Tonight, he's home.

“You made a pretty convincing argument,” Kurt says, laughing softly against him.

Blaine smiles at him. “Stay tonight?” he pleads, nose retracing the path it traced earlier, lips back on Kurt's jaw. Kurt makes a buzzing noise in agreement, hooking his legs around Blaine's waist a little more tightly, tugging Blaine closer. Kurt is hard against him again, pressing against Blaine's stomach with an urgency that hadn't been present in the truck earlier. Blaine lifts his face from Kurt's neck a little, glancing up at him, eyes curious, questioning.

“I keep thinking I'm going to wake up in the morning and this will have all been a dream,” Kurt confesses. “I just -- I need this. I need to _feel_ this. I need _you_. I need to know you're real.”

And that, this, it's all why Blaine has latched onto _Kurt_ and not just some cute boy who was nice to him. Kurt gets him, Kurt _is_ him. “Like I said earlier,” Blaine murmurs, lips feather-light against Kurt's ear, “not going to push.”

Kurt adjusts his leg, tucking underneath Blaine's ass and pulling him forward so they're even closer, and Blaine's certain Kurt can feel how hard he is now. “What if I want you to push?” Kurt asks, voice low. “That's all you've done all day is push me to make a move. I'm making one now and I'm not backing out. You pushed -- I'm pushing back.”

It's reminiscent of Kurt's story of his first kiss ( _I got in his face, so he got in mine_ ) but there's something so drastically different about the whole thing. Yeah, Blaine pushed, and now Kurt's pushing back, but Blaine doesn't mind. He _likes_ Kurt pushing him. Kurt pushes him to be better, to be himself, to move _with_ him.

Still, Blaine is hesitant to make this one, last, final move, to cement it, make it concrete, make it _real_. If he gives in, will Kurt still be here when he wakes up in the morning? There's a very real possibility that the answer is 'no.' But...

It's the first time that 'no' hasn't meant _no_.

“Shower,” Blaine says finally. He's finally making decisions and he's not doing them alone; he has someone to bounce ideas off of, someone who will listen, someone who will argue with him and tell him 'no.'

'No' doesn't always mean _no_.

Kurt offers him a sleepy, lop-sided grin. “That sounds fantastic,” he gushes. “Do you have hot water?”

“God, I hope so,” Blaine laughs, prying Kurt off of the door. He starts to untangle Kurt's legs from his body but Kurt shakes his head firmly, resting his forehead against Blaine's. “I'm not sure I have the energy to do this,” Blaine admits with a low chuckle, knees buckling a little.

“I'll have to fix that,” Kurt says resolutely, clambering down. And Blaine knows that by 'fix that,' Kurt doesn't mean 'fix _you_.'

_There's nothing wrong with you._

It takes a good ten minutes of solid digging around boxes and a few bags before Blaine finally unearths his shower supplies. He tosses the bottles into the shower carelessly, dropping a clean towel onto the counter and turning the shower on before tugging Kurt back into his arms. Kurt smiles a little at him, and somewhere beneath the surface, beneath layers of sweat and dirt and hours, there's a nervous energy between them, experiencing firsts together, but somehow, they're both too tired to care, to allow it to hold them back.

He reaches for the buttons of Kurt's vest first, fingers lazy and fumbling as they work them open. Kurt is patient, smiling as Blaine slides it up and over his shoulders, too tired and too happy to complain when it lands on the bathroom floor. Kurt's button-down meets the same slow fate after a moment and Kurt's skin -- even though it's dry and dirty from the day -- is inviting to Blaine's dirty, calloused fingers.

They make short work of the rest of their clothes, Kurt heaving Blaine's polo up and over his head, Blaine enjoying the way the muscles of Kurt's abdomen tense when Blaine unbuckles Kurt's belt. Pants and boxers and briefs left in a jumble on the floor, Blaine takes Kurt by the hand and tugs him into the shower, stepping backwards into the spray. “Oh,” Blaine moans, fingers slackening in Kurt's grip as the door shuts behind them. “Warm water. Oh, this is heaven.”

Kurt walks through the spray quickly, choosing not to linger, and reaches for the soap, all lather and bubbles and foam. He cleans himself first, letting Blaine enjoy the warmth a little while longer, before moving towards Blaine hesitantly, hands resting gently on Blaine's chest. Blaine's eyes open but he doesn't react much beyond that, letting Kurt wipe him clean, hands caressing gently, kneading a little more firmly at the stiff, aching muscles.

Kurt taps Blaine's shoulder, enjoying the way the water frees his hair from gel and forces it to fall in a mess of curls. Blaine turns around obediently, presenting his back to Kurt. Kurt spreads the soap across the expanse of Blaine's back, heels of his palms pressing firmly into the small of Blaine's back, working out the knots. He freezes a little when his fingers glide across Blaine's hip, fingers tracing a faint, pink scar. It takes Kurt's third pass over the mark for Blaine to realize what he's doing. “Is that --?” Kurt asks faintly, and Blaine nods. Kurt's hand squeezes at Blaine's waist, betraying his anger, compassion, empathy.

Slowly, he reaches around Blaine's abdomen and lets his arms fall a little, hand reaching out to gently grasp Blaine's cock. Blaine moans, loud and needy and tired, and arches his back toward Kurt, hand reaching up and back to grab at the back of Kurt's neck, keeping him close.

Kurt moves his hand up and then back down, slowly, at first, lips teasing lightly at Blaine's exposed neck. The suds start to slide off Blaine's body and into the drain, dirt long gone but sweat still lingering behind from the heat of the water. Blaine is wet and warm and pliant under Kurt's touch, squirming and sliding and keening as Kurt fists over his cock a little more firmly, dragging at times. “How could anyone,” Kurt breathes, lips trailing up to the spot behind Blaine's ear, “want to hurt you?”

“I can't kiss you like this,” Blaine whines after a while, trying desperately to turn his head into a comfortable position.

“You want to kiss me again?” Kurt murmurs into his ear, jerking a little faster.

“Yes,” Blaine gasps, bucking into Kurt's grip.

“Your body seems to say otherwise,” Kurt teases, nipping at the spot just behind Blaine's ear.

It takes all of Blaine's decision making power (and there's not much of it) to move Kurt's hand off of his cock and turn around, backing Kurt against the shower wall. “I thought I was supposed to be the one making convincing arguments here.”

Kurt laughs, shaking his head. “I told you, you already did. I'm here, aren't I?”

“Hmm,” Blaine hums, not really paying attention. His lips find a delicious spot on Kurt's neck, down near his collarbone, and the lower he kisses, the better Kurt tastes. Kurt's laugh is gone when Blaine's thumb -- followed by his tongue -- reaches Kurt's nipples, first the left, and then the right. It's mere minutes before Blaine is on his knees, sucking a little at Kurt's hipbone, Blaine's hands heavy and anchoring Kurt's waist against the wall. He flicks his gaze up to Kurt for the briefest of seconds -- the only hesitance either of them has shown in a while -- and Kurt almost doesn't catch it, he's enjoying the attention so much. But their eyes do meet for the second that's needed, blue finding hazel, and Blaine is so, so glad that he's already on his knees.

Kurt's always going to make him fall.

Blaine's lips wrap around Kurt's cock and Kurt bangs his fist against the wall _hard_ in an effort to keep from shouting out; it's well after midnight and Blaine's not even sure who his neighbors are yet, much less if they'll care how... vocal his lover is.

_Lover._

Kurt's fingers tangle in Blaine's curls, not tugging, not forcing any particular movement, just anchoring Kurt there, making it real. Kurt's cock is thick and heavy and warm against Blaine's tongue and in his mouth, already wet but made so much better by just being able to taste. Kurt lets out a broken moan as Blaine sinks down further and then pulls away a little, sucking at the head, hand reaching out to fist at the base. His free hand stays pressed firm against Kurt's hip; Kurt's free hand reaches down to tangle with Blaine's, fingers intertwining as Blaine's head bobs experimentally, speeding up at times, slowing down at others.

He slides off of Kurt's cock with a wet moan, tongue licking at the head once more. “I could do this for hours,” Blaine sighs, tilting his head to try it at a new angle.

Kurt's hand seizes in his and he tugs Blaine back up, shaking his head. “Bed,” he gasps, reaching out blindly to shut off the water. “Let's finish this in there.” Blaine stumbles out of the shower backwards, tugging Kurt with him, hastily toweling them both mostly dry before abandoning the towel on the floor and dragging Kurt out of the bathroom.

The apartment is still in disarray, boxes stacked in an unorganized fashion, furniture in place but drawers missing, abandoned to far corners of the room. The bed isn't even made, just sports a bare mattress set in the frame Kurt reassembled, but Blaine can't find it in him to care. He falls knees first onto the bed, twisting awkwardly as Kurt tumbles on top of him, hips aligning, cocks pressing together. “Oh, _Jesus_ ,” Blaine hisses, hips bucking up involuntarily.

Kurt hums pleasantly against him but pulls away again almost immediately, ignoring Blaine's whine of protest. “Come here,” Kurt says breathlessly, moving into a sitting position, ass resting on the heels of his feet. Blaine lets Kurt tug him up, guide him into a straddling position, and then they're pressed together again, the friction decidedly more tense and twisting. Kurt moans happily, hands resting at the dip in Blaine's lower back, gently holding him in place as they rock against each other.

The heat in Blaine's stomach twists and coils, knotting in a way that Blaine's been yearning for for ages, too turned on for too long. He barely grinds himself against Kurt for more than a few minutes before he's gripping at Kurt's shoulders, eyes squeezing shut; a long, broken groan escapes him as he comes, hot and heavy and pooling against Kurt's chest. He falls against Kurt heavily, burying his face in Kurt's shoulder and pressing Kurt back into the mattress.

Kurt reaches up, carding his fingers through Blaine's curls as Blaine fights to catch his breath, panting heavily against Kurt's shoulder. Blindly, he reaches a hand between them, taking Kurt's cock in his hand, side of his palm dragging through come, mingling with sweat. Kurt gasps a little but doesn't thrust up into the touch quite yet. “Take your time,” he says in a high voice. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Fuck, yes, you are,” Blaine groans, collecting himself and lifting his head from Kurt's shoulder. “You're leaving in like, twelve hours. You just _got here_.”

“I'll be back,” Kurt promises, fingers tracing over the knuckles of the hand on his cock. “I have a reason to come back. Lots of them.”

Blaine lurches up, capturing Kurt's lips with his own, pumping at Kurt's cock a little more desperately. “You have to come back,” he mumbles into Kurt's mouth. “If you don't come back, I am going to feel awful about this.”

“Not a one night stand kind of guy,” Kurt insists, grinning. “You're stuck with me.”

Blaine crashes his lips into Kurt's again, smile molding perfectly against Kurt's. He tightens his grip on Kurt's cock, hand moving with a renewed vigor. Kurt's breathing speeds up too quickly, muffled and suffocated by Blaine's face covering his; Kurt barely breaks the kiss long enough to let out a few high-pitched moans, coming all over Blaine's hand with a sudden, shouted, “ _Oh!_ ” Blaine's arm starts to ache a little as he strokes Kurt through it, fatigue finally settling in. His eyelashes flutter against Kurt's cheek as he pulls his hand away, and Kurt can barely breathe, he's panting so hard.

“Mess,” Kurt mumbles tiredly, glancing down between them. “We're messy.”

Blaine glares at the nearest box to the bed. “If there isn't a box of tissues in there, you're going to have to deal with it,” he groans, hand digging around tiredly. There's a roll of toilet paper, instead, but it'll do for now. He tears of a long stream of sheets, wiping them both off without much care, crumpling the used pieces into a ball and letting it roll to the floor.

“Pillow?” Kurt asks hopefully, unable to open his eyes.

Blaine glances at the box he knows contains his bed things; he can't bear to even consider walking the six feet it would take to retrieve them. “C'mere,” he beckons, shifting and pulling Kurt's head against his chest. Kurt hooks a leg over Blaine's, hand settled at Blaine's waist, fingers idly tracing the scar there again.

For the first time since they've met, they sleep.

*****

New York (11 a.m. - 1:30 p.m.)

Blaine wakes up alone.

The boxes still surrounded him, murky and brown and scratchy, so he knows he's in New York, knows he hasn't been dreaming. Kurt was -- _is_ real.

But right now, Kurt is nowhere to be found.

Blaine props himself up on his elbows, glancing around the apartment blearily. It takes him a second to realize that there's a blanket draped over him and a pillow behind his head. Grateful but still unsatisfied, he starts to push himself up a little, muscles screaming out in protest --

The door clicks open quietly and Kurt finally reappears, attempting to shut the door quietly before realizing that Blaine's already awake. “Hey,” he greets softly, offering Blaine a smile. “Sorry about that -- my dad called and I need to get stuff out of the truck, clothes and toothbrush and whatnot.”

“'S okay,” Blaine mumbles, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He watches as Kurt hesitates at the door, hands wringing a little nervously. Blaine pats the mattress, silently beckoning Kurt back. Kurt sinks down next to him, fingers drumming lightly on the mattress; Blaine reaches out to cover Kurt's hand with his own and sinks back down onto the pillow. “You sleep okay? I know we didn't really make the bed...”

“Fine,” Kurt says quietly. “I was exhausted. Moving and all.”

“Everything okay with your dad?”

Kurt smiles fondly at him, nodding. “He's coming home in a few days.”

Blaine's hand twitches over Kurt's. “So you should really go home, then.”

“I should,” Kurt agrees. He's quiet for a moment, watching as Blaine's thumb runs over his knuckles. “I could... stay,” Kurt offers.

Blaine shakes his head. “No, go home. Be with your dad. Besides,” he adds, eyes darting back up to meet Kurt's, cautious, “you won't be gone long.”

Kurt shakes his head, smile back on his face. “A month and then I'll be back. I have a whole city waiting for me.”

“City's not all,” Blaine murmurs.

Kurt closes the distance between them, finally, and gently presses his lips to Blaine's. “I can stay,” Kurt offers again, “at least for lunch.”

Blaine's smile reaches his eyes. “I saw a cafe a couple of blocks down last night. We could go there.”

“Can you walk?” Kurt laughs.

Blaine glares at him a little, pushing himself to the edge of the bed, rummaging in the still unpacked mess of boxes and drawers for a clean set of clothes. “If not, you'll help me up off of the floor, right?”

Kurt's eyes glitter in amusement. “Yeah.”

Blaine kisses Kurt against the door again before they leave, and the walk to the cafe is spent in a comfortable silence, Blaine taking in his first real sights and smells of the city, their fingers intertwined. At lunch, they decide to split a turkey sub, and Blaine commits himself to memorizing Kurt's coffee order. They sit next to each other instead of across from each other this time, thighs and elbows brushing.

Kurt's phone vibrates on the table once -- a text message -- but Kurt ignores it, reaching instead for the bag of chips open between them. Blaine reaches for the phone instead. “What are you doing?” Kurt asks, biting into a chip.

“Getting your phone number.”

“That's a little backwards, isn't it?” Kurt quips, finishing the chip. “Shouldn't you have done that _first_?”

“So we're unconventional,” Blaine dismisses with a shrug, setting Kurt's phone back down on the table.

The corner of Kurt's mouth twists up into a smile. “I like unconventional.”

Blaine looks over at him, the blue of Kurt's eyes bright and brilliant, and Blaine just keeps _falling_ \-- “Wait,” Blaine laughs, digging in his pocket for his phone. He holds it up between them, leaning back in his chair a little.

“What now?” Kurt laughs back, batting at his hand.

“Stop, I'm trying to take a picture --”

“Oh my god, _no_ ,” Kurt protests, hiding his face in his hands. “I haven't properly moisturized or anything. _No_.”

“Okay, Mr. 'I'm a designer and have a fantastic eye,' when did you go _blind_?” Blaine deadpans. Kurt peeks over at him through his fingers, fighting back a smile. “Please,” Blaine begs, trying to pry Kurt's hands away from his face. “I need something to remember you by while you're gone.”

Kurt drops his hands at that, smile warm and affectionate. He rolls his eyes but tugs at Blaine's arm. “Fine,” he concedes, “but you're doing this with me. It's only fair.” Blaine grins, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Kurt's cheek, his phone _clicking_ as Kurt laughs against him. Satisfied, Blaine settles back into his own chair; Kurt leans over his shoulder for approval. “I suppose it'll do,” he sighs. “Send it to me?” he adds quietly, resting his chin against Blaine's shoulder. Blaine's fingers make short work of the request before he sets the phone down on the table next to Kurt's. He turns his head a little to meet Kurt's gaze and leans forward to kiss him, just because he can. Kurt inhales sharply as Blaine pulls away. “Why is this so easy?” Kurt breathes.

“Maybe we deserve it,” Blaine says thoughtfully. “Maybe we've suffered enough.”

“Maybe,” Kurt muses. His phone vibrates on the table again, loud and insistent. “Oh my god, Rachel Berry, I swear to god,” Kurt mutters, reaching out for his phone.

“Who's Rachel?”

“A friend from high school,” Kurt explains with a sigh, thumbs typing out a quick reply. “She's my --” He hesitates, looking up at Blaine over his phone. Blaine arches his eyebrows expectantly. “She's my roommate,” Kurt admits, setting the phone back down.

“Your roommate,” Blaine parrots. Kurt bites his lip, nodding nervously.

“Yeah, we're sharing an apartment off campus together -- look, there's nothing to worry about,” Kurt rushes to explain. “I'm totally gay, and Rachel's super annoying, anyway -- she's not even going to FIT. If she were, she'd probably inflict pain on the world with a line of animal sweaters. She's going to Julliard --”

“I'd love to meet her.”

“You -- what?”

Blaine offers him a small smile. “I figure it's probably a good idea, isn't it? If we're spending time together when you get back? She should probably get a chance to meet the obnoxious boyfriend who's going to be hanging around the apartment all the time.” Kurt's jaw falls open a little and then snaps shut, eyes widening a little. “You don't want her to meet me?” Blaine asks, shifting his shoulders.

“It's not that,” Kurt says quietly. “It's -- you said 'boyfriend.'”

Blaine blinks. “Oh,” he chuckles, blushing. “Um, yeah, I guess I did,” he admits, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “It's not -- I didn't -- if you don't --”

“It's fine,” Kurt says casually, but the smile that he's fighting back betrays him. “How am I going to explain a boyfriend to Rachel Berry? I can just hear her now: 'You didn't have a boyfriend twenty-four hours ago, Kurt, what did you _do_ in New York?'” Kurt mimics.

“Just tell her you picked up a cute boy on the side of the road who fell head over heels for you,” Blaine suggests, grinning cheekily.

“Literally,” Kurt snorts.

Blaine bats at his arm playfully. “Hey. Mean.”

Kurt grins at him. “And what should I tell her, Blaine, if she asks how you fell for me?”

Blaine leans in for another kiss, murmuring quietly against Kurt's lips. “Tell her you moved me.”


End file.
